Hang On to Me, Love

I'm going through a hard time and as they say, "It ain't pretty." I've been bickering and full-out arguing with the people I love the most. Yep, that happens to me too.

My sweetie and I are both under a lot of stress. I think we both want to be acknowledged and pampered and understood. Instead, we end up speaking sharply, being careless, and otherwise making things worse. I can almost hear both of us crying out, "Hey, what about me?!"

It really stinks to have this sense that I'm watching myself behave in ways I don't want to behave. I don't want to be rude, or yell, or be inconsiderate. But it happens anyway. It's as though the stress I'm under has peeled back all my layers and this tender, sensitive, lonely little part of me is all that's left. And to protect that part of me, I bite and fight and snarl and try to seem stronger than I really am.

Today, while talking with a friend, I realized it's Yom Kippur. These are the Days of Awe, the time for repentance and forgiveness. This is the time to turn around and make things right. Seems appropriate, doesn't it? I think this is God's version of "tough love."

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

(words by George Matheson, music by Albert. L Peace)

Matheson said about this hymn:
My hymn was com­posed in the manse of In­ne­lan [Ar­gyle­shire, Scot­land] on the ev­en­ing of the 6th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s mar­ri­age, and the rest of the fam­i­ly were stay­ing over­night in Glas­gow. Some­thing hap­pened to me, which was known only to my­self, and which caused me the most se­vere men­tal suf­fer­ing. The hymn was the fruit of that suf­fer­ing. It was the quick­est bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the im­press­ion of hav­ing it dic­tat­ed to me by some in­ward voice ra­ther than of work­ing it out my­self. I am quite sure that the whole work was com­plet­ed in five min­utes, and equal­ly sure that it ne­ver re­ceived at my hands any re­touch­ing or cor­rect­ion. I have no na­tur­al gift of rhy­thm. All the other vers­es I have ever writ­ten are man­u­fact­ured ar­ti­cles; this came like a day­spring from on high.